


Endless Possibilities

by RandomW07



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dreams, Fairy AU, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Multi, RomNor Week 2020, bloodborne au, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomW07/pseuds/RandomW07
Summary: Collection of short stories written for RomNor week 2020.Days 1-4: In which Norway and Romania fall in love and reflect on their roles as nations.Day 5: Signe searches for a way to relieve herself of the apathy that haunts her in death.Day 6: When the city of Yharnam is overrun with beasts, Vasilica and Sigurd find comfort in each other’s presence.Day 7: Mihaela almost freezes to death, but is rescued by the most beautiful stranger she’s ever laid eyes on.
Relationships: Female Romania/Female Norway, Norway/Romania (Hetalia)
Kudos: 5





	1. Day 1- Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 - Nature: Awaking in a dream of flowers leads to an unexpected meeting and the first peaceful night's sleep Romania's had in decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, I love RomNor so much, but it never seems to fit in any of my fics, so I'm really happy to have the opportunity to write it! The first four days are connected, while the last three are unconnected AUs. Decided to put them all in one story for simplicity's sake. Hope you enjoy!

Since the earliest days of Romania's existence, nightmares have plagued his sleep. From skeletal creatures that snarl and snap at his heels when he takes flight, to charming young women who pull back their hoods to reveal a toothless smile and leathery skin, the hideous images linger even when he wakes. Painful memories turn these monsters into allegories, representations of the history he loathes to remember. How long since his last pleasant dream? It can't have been almost a century ago, can it?

So, when his subconscious sends him to a garden of snowdrops, dread coils in the pit of his stomach. What grotesque scenario does it plan to set in motion this time? He's long since learnt resistance is futile. Reluctantly, he settles himself down on a half-wall that separates the garden from a sea of nothingness.

It's a beautiful garden. No thought has been put into giving it any semblance of structure. Snowdrops mingle freely with violets, daisies, and dandelions, while roses race grapevines up intricate structures made of wood. In the centre of his Romania's field of vision, a massive oak casts a shadow over most of the visible lawn, yet plants he would have expected to wilt under such conditions flourish under its silent watch.

There's no logic to it. Cherry trees are in flower, yet apple trees bear fruit. Despite the full moon that shines down on him, bees and butterflies flutter from flower to flower, while ants scuttle back and forth on the floor under his feet. A ladybird lands on Romania's finger for a few fleeting seconds, before abruptly vanishing, as though whatever processes are creating this world have had a sudden change of heart.

The performed fragrances that hangs in the damp air is intoxicating. The sheer sweetness of roses and lilac would overwhelm him if not for the fresh herbs that grow by imposing silver gates. Mint, sage, lemon balm... A faint breeze caresses his skin, a welcome addition to the otherwise still night. 

In the distance, an owl hoots, startling him out of his skin. Head whipping back to peer at the sky, he catches short glimpses of bats, their silhouettes masking the stars. Said stars are unlike those he memorized centuries ago. Constellations that have no business together gather to form pretty shapes. Dawn and sunset battle each other at opposite ends of the horizon, though the moon outshines them both.

Romania is in awe of this place. Such peace of mind seems almost foreign now, after so many nightmares. Surely his mind hasn't created this place? A garden this beautiful can't have been designed by the same subconscious that haunts his sleep with terrifying horrors.

Without warning, the silver gate creaks.

Fear freezing him to the wall he sits on, Romania watches it slowly swing open. So, this is how the nightmare begins, then? He should have known this place was too peaceful to remain a dream. Well, alright then. Better to get it over and done with.

To his astonishment, it is not a monster that passes through the gates, but a nation. A nation he has spoken to one more than one occasion, one he wishes he could speak with more often. The Kingdom of Norway.

Unease dampens the surge of joy that elevates his spirits upon recognising the tall blond. Is he intruding on one of Norway's dreams, or is Norway walking in one of his nightmares? Is the Nordic country just a fragment of Romania's imagination, another piece of the puzzle his twisted mind is setting up?

"Romania. I didn't expect to see you here."

Norway notices him straight away, hesitantly approaches him. His tone is flat, but raised eyebrows betray his surprise.

"Where is here, exactly?"

He's curious. Could this perhaps not be a nightmare after all, but one of those bizarre situations the old forces of the world drag him into sometimes?

Norway settles himself down on the grass, cross-legged, paying no attention to the blades that weave themselves into a blanket underneath him. He doesn't look at Romania as he speaks, instead focusing his gaze on a patch of daisies he weaves into a braid.

"I'm not sure. At first I thought it was simply a dream like any other. Except I don't think my mind could have created something this detailed without it reflecting my lands and people. The best theory I've found is that it's a shared dream, one each and every nation moulds to fit their desires. It could even be the Earth's dream, if the Earth truly dreams."

Romania listens to his speech in mild wonder. A man of few words, content to let others fill the silence with conversation, Norway usually keeps his briefings short and concise. This is the first time Romania's heard him say so much. He has a nice voice, he thinks, now he's heard more of it. Surprisingly deep coming from a body that lithe, ever so soft, a spoken whisper, almost. 

With a start, Romania realises he can't tell what language the other is speaking. He understands every word, yet they're indistinct. They sound English and Romanian and Norwegian all at once, the language of dreams that comes from a lifetime of mastering tongues other than your own. 

"Have you seen anybody else here?" he asks.

Norway shakes his head.

"Never face to face. I've thought I heard a voice once or twice, but whenever I go towards it, the garden twists and turns until I hear nothing but silence. I don't think it likes us interacting with each other."

A shiver runs down Romania's spine. The thought that the garden might be living somehow, be it from an enchantment or a higher being's lucid dreaming, causes his fists to clench. There's still time for the nightmare to manifest itself. What if the garden refuses to let him leave? What if it traps him here for all eternity?

Norway watches his internal struggle with a look he cannot decipher. Is there anyone who can read him like a book? Denmark or Sweden, maybe? He's isn't emotionless - far from it - rather his expressions are subtle. It would require a lifetime knowing him for capture the meaning behind each one.

"You haven't explored yet, have you?" he finally asks.

When his suspicions are confirmed, a flicker of anticipation crosses his eyes. He crowns an orange and red tulip with the braid of daisies before pulling himself to his feet and gesturing towards a patch concealed by the massive oak.

"There's a spot over there you might like."

Romania nods for him to lead the way. Past the oak, through a series of hedges and cobbled paths he hadn't seen from the half-wall, until they reach a secluded corner that has him staring in wonder. Every plant is native to the land he represents. They intertwine to create creatures that have long since faded to myth, creatures he once considered friends. Dog rose, crocus, lilac, fern... A hodgepodge of elements to remind him of home. He wonders whether there's a spot where Norway, too, sits and admires the fauna and flora of his home.

What more does this garden have to offer? Will he ever get the chance to visit again? He opens his mouth to ask Norway whether he knows of any other places like this one, but his companion is already gesturing for him to follow him.

They wander side by side under the moonlit sky. More hidden wonders await discovery. Though Norway knows the garden well, even he is surprised when an unexpected turn takes them to a lake surrounded by pine trees. Shells litter the muddy edges, a web of colour one would expect to see on a sandy beach. Can they even call this place a garden, with how vast and diverse it's proving itself to be?

They talk as they walk. Or, rather, Romania talks as they walk. Norway appears to have exhausted his conversations skills, preferring to listen with his head tilted ever so slightly, uttering soft sounds of agreement every now and again. 

They talk and talk and talk, until sleep begins to lose its hold on him. The colourful flowers grow less vivid. Norway's face becomes an indistinct blur. Muffled sounds barely reach his ears. The gentle breeze no longer brushes against his skin. Romania's waking up.

He doesn't want to. Not when this has been the most peaceful dream he's had in decades. His companion glances at him, understanding causing disappointment to pool in his eyes as he sighs.

"I suppose I'll see you at the next meeting, then?"

Is Romania imagining things, or can he hear hope in that voice? He has no time to dwell on the matter, isn't even sure Norway catches his distorted farewell, before reality snatches him back, and the dream becomes nothing more than a distant memory.

Never has he longed to go back to sleep so badly.


	2. Day 2 - Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Tradition: World meetings serve no real purpose, but the traditions that have sprung forth over the years never fail to bring nations closer together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like the idea of Norway and Romania taking ages to actually get together, even though they obviously like each other, so I'm running with it.   
> Thank you for reading!

It's a well-known fact among nations and their governments that world meetings serve no real purpose. After all, nations can't make important decisions without their government's approval. It's funny, really. A nation's deepest desire is to be independent, yet they are forever bound to the people and lands they represent. Still, it's probably for the best they can't sway political relations with other nations. Think of what would happen if there was an international incident every time England and France clashed. Peace would be a foreign concept! Besides, it's easier to converse with someone if you don't have to weigh your every word.

World meetings are eagerly anticipated. After the formality of business trips, it's a relief to speak their minds without fear of reprimand from their superiors. What's more, there's something comforting about being among their own kind, even if they've been at each other's throats for centuries.

Thousands of meetings means plenty of opportunities for traditions to arise. One in particular is greatly appreciated by everyone.

No one can remember who first proposed it, nor when it became an annual event. Many suspect Italy to be at the heart of it, others think France to have first suggested it. Others still suspect Japan's curiosity to have brought the idea to light, or China's pride for his own culture. There's no way of knowing for certain, not when Norway didn't attend world meetings before his independence, not when all Denmark and Sweden can remember from those days is how they couldn't stand the sight of one another.

The tradition is a simple one. Once a year, towards the end of the meeting, they share their culture with one another. Music, food, customs, myths, a different theme each year. Of course, over the centuries, themes repeat again and again, but no matter. A nation has more than one culture to share, after all.

This year, the delicacies of their homeland are laid out on the tables. Some are homemade, others have been bought from specialised restaurants or bakeries. Cakes and pies, sweets and pastries, delicious and foul, there's enough food to feed an entire city. Nations come and go, gathering in small circles to chat and compare tastes. Sharing dishes from their country has always been the most loved cultural exchange. Even in periods of plenty, nations rarely turn down free food.

Norway feels uncomfortably shy as he serves himself a slice of the cozonac Romania has brought. A good conversation starter, he thinks. He isn't sure whether he needs an excuse to justify talking to the nation, especially considering how they met in a dream not even a month ago, but he can't bring himself to simply say "hi".

Why does he want to talk to Romania more? Because the man is _interesting_ , and Norway doesn't encounter interesting people very often. He interacts with ancient beings humanity has long forgotten. He's curious to learn about the unknown. He enthuses about passions he may be the only person in the world to have. He may be considered strange by others, he may stumble over his words when he speaks, but Norway finds him fascinating.

As Denmark's told him time and time again, if he wants to make friends, he has to take the first step. If someone else takes it, then it's up to him to ensure the fragile link between them doesn't vanish before it has time to solidify.

He walks over to where Romania and Bulgaria are chatting, head held high. His heart is hammering in his chest, but he tries to ignore it. He's fought in battles, dealt with the wrath of powerful rulers, going over to someone and saying "hi" shouldn't be an issue.

His footsteps slow the closer he gets, doubt blossoming in his mind. Will he have to clear his throat to catch Romania's attention? Should he greet him formally? Would a simple "hello" do? "Hi" would probably be too informal. Or would it? He should have thought this through beforehand. He should have waited until Romania was alone.

"Oh, hi, Norway! Nice food this meeting, don't you think?"

Thank goodness _one_ of them has some form of social skill. Romania waves him over, smile stretched wide. Norway hastily agrees, desperately trying not to trip over his words as he compliments the Romanian's baking. Fortunately, he's had plenty of time to work at masking any awkwardness he might feel. His sentences flow smoothly, not a hint of his unease causing them to quiver. Those who know him well wouldn't be fooled, but he doesn't know Romania well. Yet.

Romania, on the other hand, though not exactly a social butterfly, seems perfectly at ease. Nervousness coats the end of his sentences, though the furtive glances he shoots at Bulgaria suggest he's more concerned about what his neighbour may think about them rather than unease from chatting with Norway. It often feels as though nations have nothing better to do than gossip. The possibility of romance excites them almost as much as petty drama. 

Fortunately, Bulgaria isn't the type to indulge in gossip. He purses his lips, glaring at Norway, though he keeps his thoughts to himself as he leaves them to chat. Annoyed he's had to cut his conversation with Romania short, Norway guesses. Oh well. Just this once won't hurt him.

With Bulgaria gone, the thin sheet of tension that hung between them dissipates. They discuss the food they've consumed, go over the ingredients their own dishes contain and the customs that surround them. Romania tells him lesser-known facts about himself and his people, shares funny stories that have him laughing openly and interesting details he's intrigued to learn more about. In return, Norway details a few celebrations back home, describes the rush of dopamine they spark in him.

Fully immersed in each other, neither notice the not-so-subtle stares that watch their every gesture, every facial expression they pull. Nor do they spot the knowing smiles of those they are closest to. Denmark bets Iceland fifty Danish kroner they'll get together before the month is up. Moldova whispers to Bulgaria that neither will make a move until it drives everyone around them mad. England reconsiders asking Norway to join the Magic Club he and Romania started less than a decade ago, unwilling to be the third wheel.

Neither Norway nor Romania hear the rumours that begin to stir, the bets beginning to pool in. All they are aware of in this short moment is each other and a fluttering in their stomachs that leaves them breathless.

Two nations growing increasingly close at a world meeting, while their peers muse on how long until they realise their true feelings. That, too, is becoming a world meeting tradition.


	3. Day 3 - Exhilaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - Exhilaration: Romania decides to show Norway something special, a secret he keeps hidden from humankind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked this prompt. Emotions give you so much freedom when it comes to writing scenes! On a separate note, after researching Romanian forests, I now want to visit Romania, because it looks so pretty!   
> Thank you for reading!

Time flies when they spend time together. At first, Romania isn't sure why, but with every meeting, reasons float up from the depths of his mind. Time flies because conversation rarely ceases to flow. When it does, it gives way to a comfortable silence without expectations, neither obliged to cut it short with needless words. Time flies because there's so much to talk about and not enough minutes or hours they can spend discussing it all. Norway knows so much, seeks to learn even more.

Romania notices more and more things the more time he spends around Norway. How his head tilts ever so slightly whenever he's listening intently. How his hair curls at its tips. How beautiful his smile is, rare it may be. How stunning his eyes are, a dark shade of blue that reveal everything his expressions try to hide.

Romania likes Norway. A lot. He likes the man's cynicism, his darker sense of humour that somehow doesn't sap the joy out of their encounters. He likes how considerate he is, learning which subjects shouldn't be brought up in conversation, offering to sit indoors when the weather grows too cold outside for Romania.

He trusts Norway with the hidden wonders of his land, he realises one day. So he decides to show him something he'll enjoy, a secret he has never shared with anyone before.

Norway meets him in the north west of his country, and they set off at dawn, while the sun is still painted violet. Romania leads the way, away from civilisation, into the sprawling forest even his own people fear. The trail they take is one humans have long forgotten. Years of neglect have encouraged plants to cover the once well-kept path. Tree roots render the leafy floor uneven, and the two nations take care to watch their step.

Norway utters not a word of complaint as he navigates the vast forest. His home contains countless forests and mountains, therefore hiking comes naturally to him. He carries himself with a grace that continues to amaze Romania, a monarch even here, away from society's prying eyes.

They trek in silence. What need is there for conversation when the birds are singing, lizards scuttle away into the undergrowth, and insects hum as they rest on leaves or rocks? Talking would be a distraction. With nature's song as background noise, Romania checks all is well in this part of the country while Norway admires the scenery.

When the sun reaches its highest point, they stop for lunch. Norway offers him coffee from a thermos he keeps in his backpack, a high-quality brew they both savour. The Nordic nation's love of coffee is one of the few things Romania knew about before befriending him. He hadn't expected him to drink so much of it though. At least he knows what to get him for his birthday.

"It's pretty in this part of the world," Norway comments.

Romania is on fire as pride burns through his veins. These roots and soil are a part of him. The birds that sing high in the treetops and the bees that buzz around their heads once before losing interest are his vessels. To compliment his lands is to compliment him. He isn't quite sure what he thinks about that, save that it sends a thrill down his spine.

What does Norway mean by it?

After lunch, they continue onwards, until they reach a clearing hidden from human eyes. Shielded by a veil of magic, it lies undisturbed among a sea of trees. A concealment spell may not be necessary this deep in the forest, especially considering how blind most people are, but Romania won't risk it. Humans are very good at seeing things where there are none, which can lead to more damage than if they truly had encountered something supernatural.

He whistles. Sharp and shrill, a sudden gust of magic amplifies the sound and spreads it in all directions. Nothing to do now but wait.

"Who are we waiting for?"

"An old friend of mine. I thought she could show you a nicer view of the place."

As he speaks, the wind picks up. Trees lean to one side, their leaves torn from their branches, spirally away over the clearing. Romania's hair whips against his face, and, when he turns his head to shield his eyes from the powerful gust, he sees Norway raise a hand to his head, securing the hairclip he never parts with in a clump of hair.

The dragon descends from the skies, casting a shadow over the clearing as it does so. Mighty and proud, it lands on the grass before them, folding its wings to its sides as it observes them without a word.

"This is Noapte. She's lived here since I was a child," Romania explains, patting her snout.

The elegant creature immediately takes a liking to Norway. Without hesitating, she narrows her amber eyes, a signal of trust, and lets him press his palm against her snout in greeting. Her jet-black scales gleam under the sun's rays, her ebony claws glistening as though she's been grooming them all morning. The Nordic nation flatters her with compliments as he introduces himself, fully aware of the vanity most dragons posses.

Warmth floods Romania's veins as he watches the two interact. How can he hope to hide his feelings for Norway when every part of him embraces him as fondly they would himself? Even now, the skies are clear, though thunderstorms cover the rest of his country. No creature thinks to harm the Nordic nation; not even a starving wolf pack would consider him prey.

Norway is more than a guest here. He's the embodiment of yearning. He's ever so close to being crowned a god by the earth and air that venerate the personification of Romania.

Noapte crouches, grants the two men permission to climb atop her back. Norway hesitates, glances over at Romania for approval. Dragons are proud creatures, fiercely loyal to the nation that represents them. For one to allow a stranger to ride it is almost unheard of. Surely Norway must suspect _something_?

Romania mounts first, seating himself between two spines, trusting both his magic and the dragon who calls his lands her home to keep him safe. Norway's fingers brush against his back as the Nordic nation grasps a spine firmly with two hands.

Excitement bubbles in Romania's stomach, but before he can share his feelings with his companion, Noapte flaps her great wings and propels herself upwards. The forest falls further and further away as they climb higher and higher. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes from the wind, clothes and hair blown back as she soars.

Soon, breathing will become a challenge and the cold will creep into their skin. At this altitude, however, flying is pleasant. No, more than pleasant. No words properly can describe how it feels to admire from above the landscape nature has mapped out, how his heart races with every dive, every turn. It's impossible to put into words that rush he feels, so strong it makes his head spin, so warm a grin spreads from ear to ear, when he glances behind him to look at Norway.

Norway, whose face is turned to the sky, whose eyes are shut, whose lips are pulled into a gentle smile. Norway, who senses Romania's stare and cracks an eye open, who mouths something carried away by the wind.

What is it he feels? Exhilaration, maybe? Whatever its name, Romania embraces it, lets it fill every part of him. His human body, his people, his lands, his wildlife, every single element that constitutes his being is engulfed in that dizzying warmth Norway's joy brings forth. 


	4. Day 4 - Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - Understanding: There are two subjects they never discuss. But when Romania next meets up with Norway, resembling a kicked puppy, their silent agreement is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part of the nation romnor chapters! Hope you enjoyed them, we're moving onto AUs next chapter!

Two subjects are never brought up in conversation.

The first is their history. Oh, they know the basics - part of their job description involves reading up on happenings all over the world. But briefings delivered by exhausted workers and dry reports written by underpaid historians say nothing of the impact these events have had on the personifications who have lived through them. They don't detail the ever-changing relationships between nations, between a nation and its people, between a nation's people and its lands. The history books say nothing of the anguish of placing duty above family, those countless betrayals that were nothing more than orders they were forced to obey. They don't mention the family lost over the years, the children they've raised to become strangers. 

A nation's history is messy. Asking questions could bring unwanted memories to the surface. It could remind them of the things they've lost, friends whose corpses have long since been devoured by bacteria and maggots. The world has changed drastically over the centuries. Trends come and go, ways of thinking come into fashion before being deemed unacceptable once again. Power to the monarchy becomes power to the people. Multiple gods are reduced to one almighty being whose influence diminishes with every progress we call science. Letters turn into simple texts, a month's travel can be made in a day.

Asking questions reminds them of past glory and horrors they pray never to witness again. They're old. They're tired. Not even the good memories are worth remembering sometimes, because that's all they are: memories. Things are different now. Things will never go back to what they were.

Besides, Norway considers his meetings with Romania happy events. Laughter, joy, mischief, freedom from his responsibilities as a nation. He doesn't want to associate him with his deepest fears and most bitter regrets. He would hate to see Romania sad, even if it's inevitable, because sadness is a natural emotion to feel, and he can't be happy all the time. 

The second subject they never address is the nature of their relationship. What are they exactly? What do they want to be? Even in times of peace, Norway has always been reluctant to date other people. Mostly because the idea of romance has never sparked an interest in him. Partly because of uncertainty. What point is there in offering your heart to someone who might trample all over it tomorrow, because of roles and responsibilities, because of war and disease?

Norway's been in two unions over the course of his existence. Both political. There may have been something between Denmark and him at some point in their long lives, but it was never stronger than their friendship. As for Sweden, their union was one of loneliness, as Sweden longed for a person who bore nothing but hatred towards him, and Norway yearned to be free from the heavy shackles that tied him to others.

Romania is different.

They meet up on a regular basis, for coffee or long walks. They see each other so often the Nordics start asking questions, pester Norway with childish enthusiasm. They're ecstatic to see him his happy, this enthused about someone. They're annoyed nothing seems to be happening, that neither is willing to take the next step.

Norway dismisses them to the best of his extent. He rapidly puts a stop to their matchmaking schemes destined to end in disaster, ignores their teasing, cuts the conversation short whenever they attempt to bring Romania up in conversation. They don't mean any harm by it, he knows, but he would have hoped they had more pressing issues than his confusing not-really-sure-whether-it-even-exists love life.

Their silent agreement what not to discuss works well. However, when Romania meets him at the airport looking like a kicked puppy, Norway has no choice but to break it.

"What's bothering you?" he asks once they're seated on the train that takes them to Oslo.

They can't talk freely here. Not with the humans around. So Norway takes his companion to his flat instead. He makes him a hot drink, just the way he likes it, sits him down on the sofa, and waits.

Moldova. Romania's little brother. The sweet child who confides his biggest worries to Russia rather than his own sibling. He's what's bothering the Romanian. How can he go about mending their tattered relationship when politics dictate their actions? It's difficult. Hopelessly difficult.

He begs Norway for advice. After all, the Nordics are one big happy family, together through thick and thin, even when their history sought to divide them. How have they gone about fixing their fractured relationship?

Norway can't meet his hopeful gaze. What can he say? That years of separation have severed the once powerful bond between Iceland and him? That Iceland's only just begun to stop resenting him for his past decisions? That Iceland has never once mentioned the letters Norway used to send, letters that went unanswered? Can he tell him that for years, the discovery that they were blood brothers was nothing but a disgrace to the youth?

Nations are destined for loneliness. Sometimes Norway thinks the humans do it on purpose. Why else would they wage against each other, if not to thwart their attempts at reaching out to other beings like them, who could keep them company for an eternity? Is he bitter about this? Yes, but he's an old man, he's allowed to be bitter about these things.

He refuses to spread this bitterness to Romania.

"You can't rush these things. Give him time. Be there for him, and he'll come to you when he feels like it."

Time passes slowly for nations. Six months, five years, a decade, a century, all of these Norway considers short, yet waiting until they pass can be torture. He wishes he could give better advice.

Romania frowns, disappointed, looks down at his feet. Norway takes a sip of his coffee. He understands how Romania must be feeling. To care for someone with every inch of your being only to learn they don't trust you in the same way stings, but these things heal with time. Even though it hurts, patience reaps more rewards than pushing the person to consider you in a certain way. Norway has learnt that the hard way.

"I guess so..."

Romania takes a deep breath, exhales, then looks up, forcing a smile. His eyes are red, glittering with unshed tears. They sit in silence for a while, ever so close, fingers almost touching. Norway finishes his coffee, considers getting up to refill his mug.

"You know, I've just realised something," Romania suddenly says.

Norway raises an eyebrow.

"Hm?"

"I don't know your name."

Any thoughts of refilling his mug dissipate. Norway can do nothing but stare, speechless for the first time since they started spending time together. Romania doesn't mean the name he's currently using; he means his first name, the one his people first knew him as. A nation's original name is an essential piece of their identity, one he’s only shared with a few people.

His throat is dry.

"Sigurd."

Romania tests the name out loud.

"It suits you. Mine's Mircea."

What are they exactly? What do they mean to each other? They've only been chatting for a decade. Are things moving too fast? Should they be giving these names so freely?

Romania meets his gaze. There's no hesitation on his end, no fear of rejection. No need for words. They understand each other perfectly, two halves of the same soul finally able to reunite. Their fingers entwine, Romania's skin burning against Norway’s cold hand.

Romania smiles, a genuine smile this time, and tilts his head back. Norway's heart hammers in chest. He understands what he's asking for, and for the first time in his long life, he's willing to give it a try.

"Mircea," he echoes, and seals their lips in a kiss.


	5. Day 5 - Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Halloween: Five years after her death, Signe is drowning in apathy. Halloween should be her chance to leave the graveyard where her body slumbers and haunt the living, but she can't bring herself to move. What's the point, when everyone around her has forgotten she even existed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult one. I originally had a more horror-type story in mind, but I thought Day 6 will already be pretty grim, might as well write something a bit more light-hearted. Talking about Day 6, fingers crossed I'll have it finished by tomorrow, but it came out longer than expected, so yeah... I'll try my best!
> 
> Warnings: talk of death, apathy 
> 
> Names:  
> \- Nyo!Norway: Signe  
> \- Nyo!Romania: Mihaela

Some things in life are unexpected. Death, for example. Oh, most people have thought of dying at least once in their life, many have asked themselves just what will happen when they finally leave this earth, but the actual moment usually comes as a surprise. Well, Signe's death certainly does. One moment, she's rolling her eyes at her friends' childish antics, the next, she finds herself on a busy platform, severed from her corporal form.

She isn't sure what she's waiting for. People come and go, pay her little mind as they run to catch their train before it leaves. There's a definite fear here, it prickles her skin. What happens if you miss your train? Will there be another one you can catch or was that your only chance to escape from this limbo? Most people have a ticket; her pockets are empty. There's nowhere she can buy one from, no one to advise her on what to do.

She spends her days wandering aimlessly around the station, frequently glancing at the ever-changing electronic board in the vain hope she'll recognise a destination, envious of the passers-by who know exactly where they're bound. She doesn't need to eat, drink, or sleep. She's trapped in a constant state of apathy, with no knowledge of how she died.

Signe waits for months before finally deciding she's had enough. Gathering her courage, she picks a platform at random and follows the train tracks in the direction of the setting sun. No one tries to stop her. No train hurtles towards her. It's eerily quiet as she walks along the rusted tracks, until she finally reaches the graveyard where her body slumbers.

She settles herself down before her grave, its chill seeping into her bones. Here she will wait until the apathy fades away.

Five years she waits. Five years in one spot with little to distract her from the monotony of an empty graveyard. Her apathy has done nothing but grow over the years, bitterness poisoning any joy she might be inclined to feel.

The world's forgotten her existence. Mette, Astrid and Helmi no longer live in this small town. They have their own lives now, new friends and exciting opportunities that leave no room for Signe anymore. Mette tries to visit at first, but even she has to move on eventually, and bids her a final farewell before walking away, never to return.

Signe hasn't seen her sister once. How is she coping? Is she taking care of herself? Signe wishes she could watch over her, but she can no longer bring herself to move. She can only hope their parents are there for her, even though they no longer care to put flowers on their eldest daughter's grave.

She plucks a weed pushing out of the dusty path and places it on the smooth tombstone at her feet. A dash of green against the monotonous grey. There. Isn't that nice? Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but she furiously wipes them away. Surely it's time to see in colour again? She can't possibly live in this monochrome world forever, can she?

She sighs. Death is such a lonely thing. She never thought solitude would bother her. She who has always appreciated being left to mull over her own thoughts and daydream about worlds beyond the realms of possibility, who would have thought she'd grow to loathe being alone?

The graveyard is surprisingly busy this evening. Transparent shapes pass through trees and stone, while a low humming fills the air with the deceased's whispers. Tonight is Halloween, the one time of the year they aren't chained to their place of rest. The one day they can find some form of amusement in their monotonous routine.

Signe doesn't want to go anywhere. Scaring the living bores her. She envies them, with their beating hearts and warm skin. She's jealous of their proximity to each other, the way they hug one another and hold hands, how they laugh and tease each other. She used to be like that, once. She used to go trick-or-treating with her friends too. And then she died.

Perhaps, she thinks, if she sits here long enough, she'll fade into nothingness. Maybe she'll go mad. Either option would be a welcome change to her current state of existence.

Gravel crunches under someone's feet, growing louder and louder, until it stops. Signe freezes. There's a stranger behind her. Who could it be? A bored teenager looking to trample all over her grave? A well-meaning elderly woman coming to remove the weed she deems ugly? Someone she knows?

Hope flares in her chest, an inferno so powerful her form flickers in the dim light. She shouldn't hope, but she's lonely. It's difficult not to grasp for a rope when you've been trapped down a well for so long.

"Hey! Mind if I join you?"

And just like that, her solitary vigil is broken.

The stranger's name is Mihaela. Only in her early twenties, she glows with life, radiates vitality with every inch of her being. She wears a crooked smile and a crimson coat covered in bulging pockets she fills with odds and bobs. Despite being able to communicate with the dearly departed since she was four, she's a friendly little thing, cherished by her loved ones. Every word she speaks is fueled by empathy. She's an absolute angel.

Mihaela asks her question after question. What's her favourite colour? What's the funniest thing that happened to her during her school years? Does she like cats? Meaningless conversation, the kind two people destined to become friends create as they get to know one another.

Signe can almost believe she's alive again. A warmth blossoms in her chest, radiates outwards, from her head to her toes. She's been quiet for so long her words escape in quick succession, pausing only when she runs out of things to say. How strange it is, to talk so much, when she barely spoke in life! How much more will death change her?

"Signe," Mihaela asks her suddenly, "why aren't you getting ready to haunt the town?"

Signe shrugs.

"Why would I? There's no point to it, is there?"

Mihaela frowns, confusion dancing in her eyes.

"Of course there's a point to it! It's fun!"

She springs to her feet, dusting herself off before holding a hand out to the ghost.

"Come with me, and I'll show you what you're missing."

The ghost feels oddly light, a feather about to carried away by the wind at the slightest breeze. Hesitantly, she nods and reaches out to grasp Mihaela's hand. His fingers pass through the flesh, but for once, it doesn't matter. Mihaela's talking to her, trying to reach out to her, is treating her as though she hasn't been dead for five years.

It's a small thing, really. Nothing worth getting emotional over. Maybe the woman feels sorry for her, or perhaps she actually does care. But for the first time in five years, Signe has the impression of being someone again.

For the first time in five years, she feels happy.


	6. Day 6 - Nighttime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Nighttime: With the city of Yharnam overrun by beasts, hunter Vasilica and hunter of hunters Sigurd find themselves entangled in a sinister web spun by forces beyond their imagination. (Bloodborne AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished it on time! Yay! It would have been longer (in an ideal world I'd have included the final moon phase and possibly the final boss), but I ran out of time.   
> Spoilers for the game Bloodborne, however I've written this so that even if you've never heard of it before, it should make sense (I hope). I have taken a few artistic liberties with the lore, though.   
> Warnings: descriptions of violence (not graphic enough to up the rating), mentions of blood.  
> Vasilica is Romania, and Sigurd is Norway.

_Fuck this city and everyone in it._

Vasilica's knees trembled. His chest heaved from exertion. Blood stained his clothes, drying on the serrated edge of his cleaver. Foul blood. Tainted by the Scourge. It pooled around the slain beast, cobbled stones turning slippery with its touch.

The hunter shivered. He needed some blood of his own right now. The thought caused a bitter chuckle to escape his lips. How long had it been since his first taste? A couple of hours, maybe? Now look at him! An addict already, desperate for another taste.

_Pick your poison: dying from an unknown sickness or turning into a blood-thirsty monster._

He rummaged through his pockets for a blood vial, hoping he hadn't used them all up already. The city of Yharnam was famous for its Blood Healing, tales of its efficiency spreading far and wide. The details remained a mystery. What did the refined blood contain, so that it healed even the most severe of illnesses? Yharnamites hadn't seen fit to share their knowledge with outsiders, though people paid great sums of money to be rid of their ailments or those of loved ones.

The cure wasn't without its faults, however. As the inhabitants of Yharnam soon came to discover, something in the blood provoked a transformation in those who consumed it. Their pupils collapsed in on themselves, their minds would lose focus, and their body would be torn apart from within, changing them into grotesque beats whose only thoughts were to kill anyone they encountered. It wasn't the best situation to be in.

One left. The vial felt cool in the palm of his hand. The liquid it contained was a dark red in colour, almost black. He injected it directly into his right thigh, barely feeling the needle pierce his skin. It travelled up and down his body, red hot, straight to his injuries. Open gashes were sealed shut, chunks of missing flesh grew back instantly, as if by magic. Exhaustion faded from his body, replaced by a surge of energy. No pain accompanied the process, only bliss.

Rejuvenated, Vasilica turned his attention to his surroundings. As he'd feared, the great steel gates were shut. There were two ways into Cathedral Ward, he'd been told. The Great Bridge, where he stood, and the sewers. He'd been hoping he could avoid getting his coat mucky. Damn it.

The setting sun bathed the city in an amber glow, its rays catching the spires of the great cathedral that seemed to sprawl for miles beyond the gate. Behind him towered the Victorian Gothic architecture Yharnam was known for. Brick buildings reached for the skies, their windows barred up to protect the people inside. The Great Bridge linked the town centre to the cathedral, stretching as far as the eye could see, littered with abandoned carriages and stone statues that clutched at something beyond his line of sight. The area was deserted, save for the few enemies he'd slain.

The lupine beast had sprung out of nowhere, towering over Vasilica. It had howled and screamed as it lunged at him, digging up the cobbles as it swiped at him with a massive clawed hand. Shaggy fur snagged in his blade, slowing his blows. Vasilica had found himself hacking away at the creature's less hairy legs and feet. A well-timed shot of his pistol had sent the thing to its knees, giving him the perfect opportunity to slay it for good.

Now it lay still and silent on the floor, though its screams continued to echo in the hunter's mind. He suspected the shrill sounds would haunt him for years to come. He stared at the lifeless body a moment longer, hoping that would be the worst he'd encounter that night. It wouldn't be, he feared.

Well, nothing left to do here. The gates were shut, and the other side of the bridge led to a dead end. Might as well return to the Dream and restock on blood vials before heading to the sewers. He was sure he'd spotted a lamp around here during the fight, and sure enough, there it stood, a few feet away.

He lit it. A violet halo shone around its head, illuminating the naked messengers who reached out to him as soon as they spotted him. Ugly little things, he couldn't help but feel fond of them. Their skin was a pearly white in colour, their faces gaunt, noseless, with hollow sockets for eyes and gaping mouths lined with sharp teeth. Their cries reminded him of pained moans, yet he was slowly coming to recognise them as cries of joy.

He knelt down, held his hand out. The instant it brushed against their freezing skin, his consciousness flickered out.

The Dream was something he didn't fully understand. He'd first discovered the place shortly after being treated. He'd been preparing to leave the clinic, when a wolf had leapt out of the shadows and torn his throat out. Much to his astonishment, he'd awoken with a start on a stone path leading to a workshop.

The Dream meant he would never die. He would simply continue to reawaken on that stone path, again and again, until there was nothing left to kill him. It was a blessing, seemingly one without a price. Provided he continued to hunt the beasts that plagued Yharnam, he would be immortal. The thought thrilled him.

As always, he awoke with a start, to the sweet smell of flowers and damp grass. A profound sense of peace settled over him, the feeling of safety warming his bones.

It was nighttime, as always. The moon watched over a garden of bushes and trees, lighting the path of gravestones that led to the workshop. A small building built of stone, it stood no less impressive than the mansions of Yharnam. Inside, a fireplace had blared to life, rendering the interior warm and welcoming. Books lined shelves on the walls, though many were simply stacked in messy piles Vasilica had to take care not to accidentally knock over.

To his right hung the shelves he used as storage. Lines of blood vials, crates of bullets and pebbles, even a few coats he'd found but had no use for. He'd fill his pockets when he left. For now, however, he had more pressing issues.

His weapon had taken heavy damage in the fight. It needed sharpening, he had to ensure the blade was secured to its handle, and, of course, it had to be cleaned. A counter dedicated to that kind of activity leant against the on the other side of the fireplace. As he drew near, however, he found himself at a loss for words.

The Dream was a private place. The only other person he'd encountered were the Doll, an odd being who claimed her only function was to assist hunters like himself, and Gehrman, an old man in a wheelchair who encouraged him not to ask questions and just hunt beasts. To see a person sharpening their blades made him stop in his tracks.

The stranger was tall and slender, their shoulders covered by a cloak of ebony feathers. They turned around as soon as they heard Vasilica's footsteps, a mask made of wood covering their face with a crow's beak.

"You're new."

The beak muffled his voice slightly. A man's voice, low and soft, oddly melodious. Something in its tonality sent shivers down Vasilica's spine. Who was he?

The stranger cocked his head to one side, awaiting a response. On receiving none, he let out a sigh and removed his mask. Perhaps he thought his obscured face the reason for Vasilica's hesitancy?

Now the hunter was staring, but for an entirely different reason. His features were fine, almost delicate, though a hardness clung to them. His lips narrowed into a frown, but his eyes, a stunning shade of indigo, betrayed a glimmer of amusement. 

"I shouldn't be long. My blade broke," he gestured at the silver short-sword.

The blade had split into two curved daggers - trick weapon, Vasilica thought to himself - but a long crack ran down each of them. The hunter left him to it, returning to his storage to take out what he required. Curiosity continued to eat away at him, however, and he couldn't resist glancing over at the stranger every now and again. Who was he? Why hadn't Vasilica seen him before?

He couldn't help himself.

"I don't usually see people here."

Only the sound of metal against metal answered his not-so-subtle question. The stranger's eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he worked. Vasilica was about to repeat himself when he gave a response, mind clearly elsewhere. 

"I don't come here often. I dislike dreaming."

Confused, the hunter could do nothing but nod as though he understood. How could anyone dislike dreaming? How could the peaceful atmosphere not soothe him? In the Dream, he could forget the horrors he'd seen, the slaughter he'd been party to. He could forget the humanoid monsters who dragged their heavy blades along creaking floorboards, the half-transformed Yharnamites who patrolled the streets in packs, wielding a variety of makeshift weapons they'd found in their cellars. He could block out their shouts of fear as they caught sight of him, a predator strolling over to execute them with a single blow. In the Dream, there was no stench of blood, no smoke wafting through the air from bonfires set up to burn neighbours, friends, and family who had succumbed to the beastly scourge. How could this stranger not feel the same way?

"Oh. I see."

He shifted from one foot to the other, wondering whether the stranger had almost finished repairing his weapon. He was running out of things to do. It didn't help that the man's piercing stare seemed to see right through him.

The stranger turned back to the counter, held both daggers to the light, then snapped them together, the short-sword gleaming. Satisfied, he sheathed it.

"You're leaving so soon?"

The stranger slipped the mask back over his face. The hood concealed his pale hair, giving him an even more sinister appearance. Dressed like this, Vasilica found only one word that could describe him: Death.

"I told you, I dislike dreaming. Besides, we have a busy night ahead. I'm sure we'll meet again."

Vasilica watched him leave back down the path towards the first gravestone. Disappointment bubbled in his stomach. Why couldn't he be more friendly?

"My name's Vasilica, by the way!" he called out.

"Sigurd."

And with that, the stranger vanished in a white haze. Back to the waking world. Vasilica shook his head to clear himself of any further thoughts of the man. The night would be long. He didn't have time to worry about unfriendly strangers. 

* * *

Sigurd wished the presence of a new hunter within the dream he so loathed to visit surprised him. Instead, it dismayed him. Another Paleblood Hunter, no doubt, another one of Gehrman's tools. "Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt", thus was their mission. What is Paleblood, you ask? Who knows? Certainly not an outsider like Sigurd.

He'd managed to keep his own fate at bay for a good few weeks, now. After openly rejecting Gehrman's suggestion he not worry and hunt some beasts, he'd avoided the Dream whenever he could. He only visited the workshop when his blades broke or threatened to break, spoke to the Doll only when the blood coursing through his veins threatened to drive him mad. The rest of the time, he roamed the waking world, awaiting his next mark so he could rid the city of those bloodlust had turned insane.

How long could he continue to flee? The presence of Vasilica in the Dream suggested he was no longer needed. Did he have to be properly banished from it? Or could it simply decide to shut its doors on him someday?

Banishing those dark thoughts from his mind, he focused on more pressing dilemmas. Namely, his next mark.

He'd been wandering the streets of Yharnam, making sure to avoid the regular patrols of beasts who still believed themselves to be men, when he'd stumbled across a little girl. She'd been hiding in her home, believing herself to be safe behind barred windows, bathed in incense.

Normally, Sigurd left Yharnamites to their own devices. They disliked outsiders on principal, needing someone to blame for their own foolishness. The young man preferred not to be shouted at for ten minutes for something he had played no part in.

Children were different. Children reminded him of his little brother, who must be tucked up in bed at this late hour. Only seven, he went to sleep before the sun had finished setting. Well, he should. He usually sat up and read until he heard Sigurd go to bed. Sigurd missed his little brother. At least he was safe, he told himself, not like this child.

Upon hearing her nervous calls, he'd approached her window and asked her what was troubling her. The tale she'd shared with him was a tragically common one in these parts, one he'd heard time and time again. He wished he'd stop hearing it.

Her father was a hunter. He hadn't returned from the previous night's hunt, therefore the girl's mother had left home to go looking for him. Now both parents were missing, the girl was all alone, and, to make matters worse, the silly woman had forgotten to take her music box with her. The dainty little thing was the only thing that made the hunter remember who she was when his sanity slipped.

Sigurd had promised the girl he'd keep an eye out for them. Her naive hope that he'd find both of them happy and healthy left him feeling empty. 

Engraved underneath the music box were two names: Viola and Gascoigne.

Gascoigne was his next mark.

How would he explain that to her? Who would take care of her with both parents dead? No neighbour would open their door to anyone nowadays, terror governing their every action. There was no charitable organisation who would take her in, and Sigurd had too much on his plate to consider playing the role of babysitter.

The only place he could consider sending her was Oedon Chapel, where a blind beggar dwelled. The building was covered in incense; it must be the safest place in the entire city. The beggar was a strange fellow, shunned by society, but he had a good heart. Who would escort her there? Sigurd's mentor would have his head if he admitted he'd been acting bodyguard instead of keeping the streets clean.

He was a hunter of hunters. His job was to put down hunters who had acquired an unhealthy taste for blood, not ensure little girls reached their destination safely. Assassins like him left that duty to regular hunters.

Then again, he resembled a haggard plague doctor far more than a proud assassin nowadays. His crow-feathered cloak had grown dull over the weeks, his blade was forever tainted with crimson stains no amount of polishing could wipe away. His mask was dented, fatigue quickly depleted his energy levels. There was too much work to do in Yharnam. He was beginning to doubt things would one day go back to normal.

He sighed. Enough moping. If he loitered any longer, Gascoigne would have succumbed to the Scourge and murdered anyone in his general proximity. Ridding himself of his thoughts, he made his way towards the sewers, to the graveyard at the back of Oedon Chapel.

He found his mark in the centre of the graveyard. Oblivious to his surroundings, Father Gascoigne was hacking away at a mess of brown fur, swinging his axe in slow, irregular arcs. Thud. Thud. Thud. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air.

Sigurd unhooked his twin daggers. The blade of mercy had been the traditional weapon for hunters of hunters for generations. For someone who disliked using a pistol, its two-handed form had proven itself incredibly potent.

The hunter paused. He sniffed the air, letting out a rancid cloud as he exhaled. Slowly, he turned around to face his executor. A thick bandage hid his collapsed pupils from the faint rays the setting sun would soon cease to cast. He mumbled something under his breath. Sigurd cleared his mind. A blind adversary didn't mean an easy one. Especially not when they were this far gone.

Father Gascoigne charged towards him, and the battle commenced.

His opponent was fast and aggressive. Sigurd rushed him, landed a few hits, dodged to the side, slashed at him again, a fast-paced dance that left room for next to no error. He never took a step backwards. He never retreated far enough for the hunter to begin shooting at him instead.

A misjudged side-step punished him with a slice to his shoulder, a blow that had him hissing as he quickly injected himself with some blood before the pain rendered that arm useless. A tactical decision, really. The surge of adrenaline sharpened his vision, quickened his movements. He delivered a flurry of slashes, pinning Gascoigne up against the wall. Left. Right. Left. Right. He _had_ to finish this fight before the hunter transformed. He stood no chance against an actual beast.

His opponent freed himself from his disadvantageous position, slipping sideways, then backwards, as he tried to draw Sigurd into the centre of the graveyard. He extended his axe with a harsh clicking sound, doubling its size. Wielding it with two hands instead of one, he spun as he swung, thrust forward and slashed it in a wide arc over his shoulder, tricky patterns that required excellent timing both to land and to avoid.

Sigurd adapted to this new rhythm without losing a step. This time, he jumped backwards, waited a heartbeat, sidestepped the attack, then put his opponent on the defensive with a whirlwind of blows. Left. Right. Left. Right. Jump backwards. Wait. Sidestep. Repeat.

His aggression paid off as Gascoigne staggered backwards, panting heavily. Seizing the opportunity, Sigurd darted towards him, blades crossed, ready to land the killing blow.

He noticed the signs of transformation a moment too late.

A blast of heat sent him flying backwards, blood vials spilling out of his pockets across the floor. Winded, ears ringing, Sigurd forced himself to his feet. Terror rippled through him as he watched Gascoigne's human form melt, leaving nothing behind of the man he used to be save for the bandage around his eyes.

_Shit._

What used to be Father Gascoigne sniffed the air, seemingly confused for an instant. Bipedal, grey-furred, what remained of the man's clothes hanging loosely off its body, it was easily twice Sigurd's size. The confusion lasted no more than a few seconds. With an angry howl, the beast launched itself at the assassin, and he was fighting for his life.

If the hunter had been aggressive, the beast was doubly so. An accidental step backwards and the beast swiped at his ribs, sending him flying. A resounding crack split the air and Sigurd's vision was bathed in white. Gritting his teeth, he flung himself at the beast. If he could somehow get behind it, maybe he'd have time to grab a blood vial off the floor before they all shattered. He couldn't win injured.

But the beast wouldn't let him. Relentless, it forced Sigurd on the defensive, flinging himself sideways, trying to avoid the savage blows. A succession of swipes and slashes had him crying out in pain, unable to escape the attack. Fuck. He wouldn't last much longer at this rate.

A gunshot sounded just behind him. A bullet whizzed past his face. The beast whipped its head around, snarling at the new threat. Sigurd didn't hesitate. Ignoring the agony in his side, he landed a flurry of attacks on its exposed back. Left. Right. Left. Right. Over. Under. Crossed. Uncrossed. Faster. Faster. He could barely breathe, his vision beganing to blur, still he fought, desperate to cause enough damage the beast would die of blood loss, if he couldn't kill it properly.

It spun around furiously, raising a clawed hand, about to slice down and send him back to the Dream, when a spear caught its belly, snagging on the flesh. With one firm tug, it gutted the beast cleanly.

What used to be Father Gascoigne fell to its knees, clutching at its open belly. It opened its jaws, whether to utter a last roar of defiance or a furious snarl, Sigurd would never know, as the saw spear swiftly put an end to its life with one final slash. It fell to the floor, still.

"You okay?" Vasilica's eyes were wide.

Sigurd collapsed, fighting to catch his breath, a stabbing pain cutting his ragged inhalations short. He clumsily searched the floor for blood vials, only to find shattered glass, their contents sinking into the earth. Damn it. His vision had almost gone, sounds growing increasingly muffled.

His mask was pulled away suddenly. Something cool pressed against his lips.

"Drink this. The doctor from the clinic gave it to me earlier. It'll help."

It tasted heavenly. Surprisingly sweet, slightly more runny than regular blood. It washed over him suddenly, a blanket of warmth that numbed his pain and cleansed his body of fatigue. His breathing slowed. The agony faded away. He glanced up. Vasilica crouched beside him, a worried expression replacing the cheerful grin he’d sported earlier.

"Thank you," Sigurd murmured.

"Anytime."

Vasilica stood up, folded his spear into what appeared to be a miniature version of the cleaver he'd been carrying the last time they met. He shifted nervously from one foot to the another, his gaze flickering from the stairs that led to the gate towards Oedon Chapel and the kneeling hunter of hunters.

"You sure you'll be okay?"

Sigurd nodded.

"I'm usually better at hunting people. I just let that one get away from me. I appreciate your help, though. Saved me a trip to the Dream."

He'd have to be careful, but he should be able to find some blood vials around here. It wasn't too difficult to replenish his stock, though it could take a while.

"So you're like Eileen? A hunter of hunters?"

"You've met Eileen? What did you do to impress her, that she gave you some of her time?"

Vasilica laughed. He had a nice laugh. Loud, slightly breathy. Sigurd wouldn't mind hearing that laugh more often.

"She was impressed by my good looks, I think," he teased.

The assassin rolled his eyes.

"Oh? And what good looks would they be?"

The hunter stuck his tongue out at him. He glanced back towards the stairs.

"Where you heading next?" he asked.

Sigurd's spirits dampened immediately. He'd found Gascoigne. Only Viola left. Then he'd have to break the news to the child. He'd almost forgotten about that.

"I'll stay here for a bit. Still got a few things to do."

Vasilica's smile faltered, though his eyes kept their shine.

"Guess I'll see you around then?"

"Hopefully," Sigurd cracked a smile of his own.

He waited until the hunter had gone before rising to his feet and surveying the area. The dusk air felt fresh against his skin, and he savoured the sensation a few more moments before securing his mask over his face. He'd need to find some more incense. If he’d been able to smell the rancid stench emanating from Gascoigne, then the city would be even worse.

Gathering his courage, he set to work looking for the missing woman. There were quite a few corpses in these parts. He turned each one over, sorting through their pockets to see whether they carried a red brooch on their person, like Viola had been said to wear. He hoped nobody had stolen it. The poor victims' faces were usually unrecognisable.

He found her on the roof of the caretaker's shed. A beautiful red brooch framed with gold clung to her mud-stained dress. Her throat was slit, and she stared unseeing at the darkening sky, lips parted in a startled cry. Heart heavy, Sigurd took the brooch from her, placed the music box beside her, and let it sing.

This was no proper funeral. Sigurd had never understood the Yharnam tradition of burying their dead - How could one trapped beneath layers of earth ever hope to ascend the skies? - but even that seemed better than leaving their bodies to fester. He had nothing more to offer her, however.

He kept his head bowed until the music box fell silent, mourning not only the tragic deaths of her and her husband, but those of the countless unnamed victims of the Scourge who would never receive a true send-off.

This entire situation could have been avoided. What a shame people only start to do something about their problems when they grow too messy to fix!

* * *

As evening turned to night, Vasilica encountered Sigurd countless times. Wherever the hunter went, the hunter of hunters was already there, or would be there soon. They exchanged greetings, shared information with each other, lightened the mood with jokes or a sarcastic remark. Time and time again, Vasilica suggested they go part of the way together. Time and time again, Sigurd refused. 

He acted friendlier with every meeting, until Vasilica had a hard time remembering how cold he'd first appeared. He hadn't needed Vasilica's help since the fight with Father Gascoigne, which the hunter wasn't sure whether to feel happy about or disappointed he didn't have a convincing argument as to why they should travel together.

The only place Sigurd had stayed away from was Old Yharnam, the abandoned district at the very bottom of Cathedral Ward. Vasilica had dashed through the burning streets alone, constantly shot at by a hunter who watched over the area from the tallest tower in the district.

Sigurd would have come in useful back there. Without him, though, Vasilica had been forced to navigate the narrow, unstable walkways that creaked under his boots, until he lost the sniper.

Since leaving Old Yharnam, however, a cough had lingered in his chest. He blamed it on a horrifying beast he'd encountered in a chapel that stood apart from the other buildings. The four-legged creature had reeked of decay, its face hidden beneath a veil of severed flesh. It hadn't bled from its injuries, but spewed pus and sulphuric gas. Whatever its spray had contained, the Dream wasn't ridding his body of it.

"That cough sounds nasty."

Vasilica looked up. Sigurd's voice echoed off the stone walls of Oedon Chapel, his steps light as he climbed the steps up to the altar where the hunter stood. He acknowledged the beggar's presence with a curt greeting, before focusing his attention on his companion.

The Chapel was slowly filling up with people. An old woman who spat abuse at whoever paused to ask her about her day, a nun who huddled away in a corner praying, an old man who trusted no one, and a prostitute who happened to be the best company out of everyone here. The smell of burning incense clung to every corner. Grunts from monsters outside slipped through cracks in the ceiling.

"Yeah, got sprayed with poison, I think, in Old Yharnam. Looks like dreaming can't solve all my problems."

"Hope for your sake it isn't ashen blood." Sigurd rummaged through his pockets. "These should hopefully get rid of it."

Vasilica took the leather pouch he was offered, retrieving a small white pill from its depths. He'd seen similar tablets back in Old Yharnam. Almost every house had contained at least a few containers full of the things. He'd been wondering what they were for.

"Ashen blood?"

"A disease that broke out a few years ago. The Healing Church managed to cure people of it thanks to their miraculous technique known as Blood Healing. Unfortunately, those cured of ashen blood ended up turning into beasts, so Old Yharnam ended up being burnt to the ground."

Sigurd said all this in a flat tone, tinged with scorn. The outsider looked down on many happenings in Yharnam. Vasilica wasn't sure how he'd come to learn so much, but none of it painted the city and its inhabitants in a good light.

He shuddered as he recalled the burning beasts tied to crosses that littered the open plazas of Old Yharnam. The charred remains of buildings had led him to assume the district had burnt down at some point, but to think it had been deliberate...

He thought of the vicar he'd stumbled upon deep within Cathedral Ward, seconds before she turned. She'd sat before an altar, deep in prayer, voice confident as she reassured herself of the purity of her soul. Had she administered blood to innocent people, knowing full well they'd transform into hideous monsters that had to be put down? How little empathy must you have to lead a dehydrated horse to a poisoned trough?

"How do you know all this? I thought you hadn't been in Yharnam long."

"A good friend of mine used to live here. He liked sending me letters."

Sigurd sighed, his elbows resting on the cold banister. No point asking what had happened to him. Vasilica couldn't help but think how lucky he was, that there was only one person he spoke to regularly in these parts.

The pills seemed to be working. His airways were slowly clearing, that trickle in his chest fading away with every passing minute. He guessed whatever he'd caught, it wasn't ashen blood. That was good, at least.

"Where you heading next?"

"Yahar'gul," the assassin's tone conveyed his distaste.

Vasilica shuddered.

"Good luck. That place creeps me out."

He'd only been once, accidentally. An ominous chanting had followed him wherever he went, the darkness of the jail he'd found himself in playing tricks with his mind. He never wanted to go there again.

"Need some company? I'm heading that way anyway."

He expected Sigurd to refuse his offer, but to his surprise, the hunter of hunters agreed. He probably just needed something to distract him from the thought of going into Yahar'gul by himself, but joy flooded Vasilica's veins anyway.

It was odd, clearing the Cathedral Ward with someone else. Here, the buildings were built of stone. They sprawled across the land, turrets and balconies connecting and separating to form an immense cathedral whose spires kissed the heavens. Vasilica couldn't help but think how many tourists Yharnam could bring in, if the circumstances were different.

Sigurd kept out of combat, assisted the hunter solely by distracting his prey whenever they grew too vicious to handle. He knew the area by heart, leading the way, making small comments every now and then on a statue they passed or a carving in the stone.

At the beginning of the outbreak, the Healing Church had kept things quiet. People went missing overnight, disposed of by stealthy hunters. After the burning of Old Yharnam, the situation proved itself too dire to be kept secret. Monthly hunts had been organised, then weekly hunts, until most nights hunters roamed the streets.

Eventually, Yharnamites had been summoned to assist the hunters. People were told to stay in the safety of their homes, to open their doors to no one, to report any signs of the Scourge in loved ones. Stashes of incense burnt at every window to ward off evil.

"Things have never been this bad before," Sigurd admitted. "I can't see things returning to normal after tonight."

They parted ways in a large plaza dotted with gravestones. The moon shone down on them, stars obscured by a force Vasilica couldn't discern. He was reluctant for them to part ways. He liked having a companion. Chatting with Sigurd made him think things might be okay someday, even though the hunter of hunters thought otherwise.

"You know, once this is all over, we should go out for a coffee," he mused.

Embarrassment spilled over him the second those words left his mouth. They'd only just met! Jesus, he wasn't that desperate for company, was he? Sure, the guy was good-looking, and funny, and interesting, but the future was uncertain. Who knew if such an opportunity would ever arise again?

Fortunately, Sigurd seemed unfazed by his poorly-thought-of comment. A gentle laugh floated into the air. His expression was concealed by his mask, but judging from the warmth in his voice, he seemed to be smiling.

"Coffee sounds nice."

And with those words, they parted ways.

Sigurd headed into Yahar’gul. He would spend a good part of the night dying repeatedly to a trio of hunters even he was no match for. The remaining hours would be spent fighting another hunter of hunters in the heart of Cathedral Ward, a mysterious figure who viewed him as nothing more troublesome than a fruit fly.

Vasilica headed into the Forbidden Woods. There, he would find the path that led to a university long forgotten by the inhabitants of Yharnam. Within the university, he would uncover one of the city’s biggest secrets, a discovery that would change his very perception of reality.

Of course, the two would meet again. Never like this, though. Never under the peaceful light cast by a moon of the purest white. The next time they met, things would have become a lot worse.

Above them, the moon flickered. For a fleeting instant, it almost appeared red.


	7. Day 7 - Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - Fantasy: After almost freezing to death, Mihaela finds herself in the home of the most beautiful woman she's ever laid eyes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! I had so much fun writing these, and I'm pretty happy with them!  
> Thank you to those who left kudos! And thank you for reading! As always, constructive criticism is welcome.

The lake has frozen over. It sparkles as the light catches its clear surface not yet dented by reckless humans. Mihaela lands on a stone covered in a thin sheet of ice, grateful for the opportunity to rest her wings. A winter chill coaxes her breath out in miniscule clouds that dissipate seconds after appearing, wrapping her in a cloak of dew. She shivers.

What demon possessed her to leave the sanctuary of the hollow she called home? Frustration, that boiling exasperation when she realised how set in their ways those who surround her are. What harm could progress do? Why should they live in the same bubble of ignorance they've maintained for eons?

"Silly girl, her ears are stuffed with cotton, her mind is muddled with fantasies," they shake their heads and whisper to each other in passing.

Well, she's finally grown tired of it! In a burst of anger, she left their backwards thinking behind, and flew as far as she could go, trying to lose herself in the landscape.

Fairies don't leave their homes when the temperature plummets. Their small bodies can't cope with the cold. Mihaela hugs herself, rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm them. She'd thought the afternoon sun would be warm enough. Apparently not.

Her wings weigh heavily on her back. The moisture sinks into the fragile scales, denying her the ability to fly away. Trapped here, on this icy rock that saps her energy, she fights to stay awake. Her fingers are turning numb, she's so cold she feels almost warm. Her eyelids droop, her thoughts blur, and suddenly everything goes dark. 

* * *

The next time her eyelids flutter open, warmth envelops her body. A blanket spun in the finest silk covers her entirely, a pillow stuffed with the softest feathers rests under her head. The comforting smell of wood and the regular ticking of a grandfather clock bring back nostalgic memories from her childhood, late nights spent listening to her grandparents share tales of old. Things were simpler back then.

Mihaela sits up. Her wings flutter, dry and unharmed. Where is she?

The hollow of a tree. Trinkets and tapestries cover the walls, unusual objects Mihaela knows not the names of, events unfamiliar to her depicted in the colourful threads. The furniture looks handmade; its wooden armature gleams, the quilts and cloths neatly settled over it. Tanks of fireflies stretch to the ceiling, shedding light on the otherwise dark room.

A fairy sits at a round table. Her wings are folded. Swallow-tailed, their tips narrowly avoid brushing against the floor. The woman's long hair glows almost white under the artificial light. Every now and again, she lifts her hand to brush a strand away from her face. A heavy book masks her features, though Mihaela manages to discern high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose behind the heavy volume.

Mihaela opens her mouth to speak, but her voice dies in her throat. The fairy has suddenly looked up. Dark blue irises flecked with violet study her as though she were an interesting butterfly that had just landed on a flower. Her lips are drawn into a small frown, yet disdain doesn't twist it into a sneer.

"You're awake," she says.

Her voice is light and melodious. It reminds Mihaela of the songbirds she hears at dawn. It hypnotises her. She can do nothing but gawk at this woman, whose beauty is unlike any she's seen before.

It takes an embarrassing number of minutes for her to realise she's been staring at the stranger with her mouth wide open. Heat rushing to her face, she trips over her words as she tries not to make an even bigger fool of herself.

"Uh, where, uh, where am I?"

"My home. I found you freezing to death out near the lake. What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Her words bruise Mihaela's pride. Shame bubbles in her stomach. Her wings droop and she looks down at her feet, which are drawing circles into the floor. Why hadn't she sought shelter instead of flying into the chilly morning air?

"I was frustrated with some people. Just needed some air, I guess. Thank you for rescuing me."

The stranger sighs, a mere whisper, shaking her head.

"I see. Well, I hope you don't make a habit of it."

"I won't," Mihaela assures her.

She isn't planning on going back there. Even if they try to drag her back. There must be people like her out there somewhere, people whose minds aren't as narrow as the tunnels of an ant's nest. She'll find them, she'll finally belong somewhere, and she'll never be frustrated enough to leave again.

The stranger nods, satisfied by her answer. She invites Mihaela to the table, offers her a hot drink sweetened with honey. Her name is Signe, and she only lives here during the winter months.

"Warm weather doesn't agree with me," she explains.

She's curious to learn more about Mihaela. She asks her where she comes from, where she's headed, what she likes to do in her spare time. She's content to listen in silence as the shorter fairy speaks, adding her thoughts on the matter when she deems it necessary. She doesn't judge her when Mihaela voices her irritation regarding her family. On the contrary, a storm flashes in her eyes, and her voice is tight with anger as she condemns their ways.

Something strikes Mihaela as odd about her, however. Her ethereal beauty, her love of the cold, the fact that she migrates when summer arrives, none of that is normal for a fairy. In fact, the only place where such things have been mentioned are in myths and folklore. Four beings, one for each season, who were said to ensure the world functions as it should do. It's silly, but she can't help but wonder whether Signe is actually a normal fairy like her.

The woman stretches as she gets up to refill their mugs, unfolding her wings as she does so. The shorter fairy can't help but gasp. If she'd thought Signs beautiful, her wings make her breathtakingly _stunning_. A dark indigo in colour, framed by silver membranes, mauve patterns dance across the gossamer scales. When the light catches them at a certain angle, the patterns shine green, then red, then blue, the aurora borealis on display for Mihaela's eyes alone.

"You bring winter to the world," she breathes, any lingering doubt fading away.

Signe glances over her shoulder, a bemused smile tugging at her lips.

"You could say that. I've been shirking my duties lately, though."

"Oh?"

She hums, placing two steaming mugs on the table.

"I've been rescuing pretty fairies from the cold, then spending the afternoon enjoying their company. Not very professional, don't you think?"

Mihaela gulps. Her wings flutter. Signe is sitting closer than before, their feet brushing underneath the table. Her heart races.

"I guess not." She glances over at the clock, stomach sinking. "It's getting late. I should probably find somewhere to stay the night."

Signe draws back. Her wings droop ever so slightly, uncertainty sparkling in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. Was I too forward?"

Mihaela laughs. Her hand reaches out to brush against Signe's freezing fingers.

"Not at all. I just don't want to be a bother, that's all."

"You're welcome to stay the night."

The offer tempts her, but Mihaela knows herself too well. She shakes her head, squeezing the hand gently.

"I'll come back tomorrow. I promise."

She leans over, and Signe presses a chaste kiss against her lips. It chills her to her core, sharp and biting, yet she's bursting into flames from the gentle touch. She pulls away with great reluctance, committing the feeling to memory.

Signe smiles at her, soft, almost shy.

"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then. Please don't freeze to death before then."

Mihaela laughs.

"I'll try not to!"


End file.
